Chapter 67.5: Rhys + Leeway = Juvie

Chapter 67.5: Rhys + Leeway = Juvie

Linen Mill Studios, Banbridge. August 2011.

This truly was a song of ice and fire.

Just recently, I couldn’t stop quibbing about Northern Ireland being a summertime tundra. Yet now, at those identical coordinates, my frigid temper had melted, and I was enduring grievous swamp ass.

Pyrotechnic pundits were laying petrol-filled pipes, pumping out practice pyres around my perimeter. Soon, the same fuel would smear the steel sauna I’d been shackled to, setting my underfoot up in smoke if the safety standards didn’t hold. The burlap-esque tunic I was bundled inside wasn’t doing me much benefit, either. The best the bottles-worth of collected sweat could do was boil rather than barbecue me. 

To top it all off, my faux hairline was also on the verge of dripping over my tastefully scruffy face. Woven white-stripe extensions were begging to be extinguished. 

My only hope was to find a means to cope. That inadvertent rhyme formulated a sudden scheme in my mind.

A rhythm only my deranged mind could hear began beating at my eardrums. “Temperature~ Makin’ me swelter~ Boutta bust loose and run helter-skelter~” I bopped my head to an imagined Bas line.

I figured that rapping required I carry less of a tune than singing does. Unfortunately, the tight-lipped smiles and panicked eyes visible even beneath the dirt-caked make-up of the two prisoner extras ensured me I remained as tone deaf as always. The only head banging that’d be occurring would be skulls bashing desperately against the wrought-iron cage, keeping them trapped inside my karaoke gulag. 

“Give a little bit a ah, ah~ With a little bit a ah, ah~” There wasn’t a lot of room to breakdance; but I flexed my shoulders and pump my pecs as I krumped despite the cramped space. “You know you want in on this. C’mon! Who’s got the chorus?” I shimmied. They shook their heads. Fine, guess I’ll sing it myself. “It’s gettin’ hot in here~”

“Please keep on all your clothes~,” Woah, Nelly! I whipped my luscious new locks to discover Maisie scrunching her face as if she’d sniffed something smelly. “I reckon we’ve seen, and especially heard, quite enough of you, Bas. Still trying to get your drunken image out of my head, I don’t need an accompanying theme song; spare me that, please.” Damn! Maisie telling me off wasn’t how I was prepared to get roasted today.

At least she resisted jabbing me with that prop axe she was wielding.

“How come I’m the only one getting cut to size, by the way? Charles, if you’ll recall, hadn’t exactly been capable of dancing without stumbling, yeah?” I demand fair treatment!

Maisie disagreed. “Because he’s scary, and you’re not.” Huh… that tracks. 

Still, I refused to let a ribbing go un-retributed. “What surprisingly childish reasoning.”

“Says you!” Scoffed Maisie. “If anybody needs to grow up, it’s you. Bothering these poor folk around you by behaving like some overgrown toddler. How anyone’s meant to get work done in your presence is beyond me. We’re serious about our craft here, you know?”

Ah! Now, I understand. She wasn’t being pretentious; Maisie, stereotypically teenaged girl, was suffering a mild case of pubescent precociousness. Territory I was viscerally familiar with, due to my own industry upbringing. Not to mention, the gang of girls who also went through their growing pains alongside me.

Suffice it to say, I could empathise. Moreso, I appreciated the pitfalls that inherently existed under the magnifying glass of mass media.

Youth wasn’t meant to be misspent, it was there for you to misbehave. A lesson I was now determined to impart. “In a hurry to be seen as an adult, are we?”

“Hmph!” she responded with crossed arms and an upturned nose, but failed to stymie a self-satisfied grin.

“Life’s more fun at my end of the jungle gym, to be honest. Zipping down the slide is a hell of a lot more entertaining than climbing the ladder. I cause all kinds of chaos, and I’m almost always awarded with adulation. Worst I get is a slap on the wrist. Tell me, doesn’t that sound loads better than forcing yourself to sip coffee on the sidelines?” I dipped into the ambiguously ethnic accent I’d reserved for my portrayal as Jaqen. Soft, svelte, a little sexy. All to seduce Maisie away from premature maturity.

“La la la! I won’t let you corrupt me with your bad influence.” Cute, but the Bas influenza shall infect you, eventually. Unwilling to heed my advice, she jammed fingertips into her ears and scampered away.

Fuzzy, though, my memory may have been, I distinctly remembered her shielding her eyes during our very first encounter, as well. 

Hear no evil, see no evil. I wonder what it’d take for her to speak no evil?

–

The perfect vector for my mind virus arrived a few days later.

Maisie was outfitted, but grumbling beneath her greasy boy-band style bangs. I was adorned in Lannister armour, leaning on a prop barrel opposite her. Even the live chickens had their feathers fashionably ruffled for the camera. The only missing piece left undressed was the set.

The open-air set was purpose-built to be atmospheric. Yet, by that very nature, there were instances where we were beholden to the whims of weather. Downpours were an ever-present downside.

It was raining. Thankfully, not men, hallelujah. 

Before I was able to book another session in the music studio, however, Maisie trumpeted an interruption by squeezing a sigh through her flapping lips. “Pbpbpbpb. This sucks!” Unable to abide the standby, she took out her frustrations on a stray pebble by her feet.

She kicked. A stone sailed. And the suddenly headless chicken was nearly literally so. 

Spooked by its potential retirement by crossing over straight into craft service’s ovens, the chicken squawked and fluttered straight onto my lap. 

Rather than bearing the brunt of its feathery ire, I clamped my hands gently around it, and pointed its beak toward the culprit who’d made the KFC-sponsored punt in the first place. “B’kawk! My revenge shall be swift, and pelted with more than mere rocks!”

“Yeah, well, I don’t really give a flying-!” As much as the amused shock that stole across my face prodded her to continue, I shushed her with a finger raised to my lips and, in the same motion, pointed it at the crew behind us. She blinked at them, turned her head to blush at me, and attempted a more PG recovery. “… flock?”

“Smooth.” Sarcasm was an art. “Getting a head start on the adult language too, eh?” 

“Only around you!” People might assume I’d found it rude that she stuck her tongue out at me - they’d be wrong. I couldn’t be happier about it. “Don’t make a shit situation worse. We’ve already wasted a day.”

“Who says it has to stay that way?”

“What exactly do you propose we do instead of wait, then?” She huffed out her lack of imagination. 

“Run the scene, anyway.” My shrug was met with her accusatory finger bouncing between the milling staff and spitting squall. “So? That ain’t no excuse to not salvage whatever we can. We’ve spent ages learning our lines, may as well put them to use.”

“To what end? We’ve already had rehearsals.”

“Sure.” I easily agreed to dull her sharpening edge. Teens… always so moody - chiefly whenever you’re trying to do something for their profit. “You were brilliant. Brittle, desperate, and an angry Arya Stark in disguise. But here and now? There’s no lights, no camera, no action - no pressure! It’s an ideal opportunity to workshop your performance. Play around!” Like kids ought to. “Make strange character choices; see what gels and what’s better suited for the trash heap. You never know what inspiration can improve your act.”

Less of a sceptic after my authentic plea, Maisie lowered her guard. Hesitantly, she approached closer, pet my crooning hen in apology, and asked, “how?”

“Unleash your heart’s desire!” I would’ve grandly swept my arms wide, if it weren’t for the chicken calmly nesting in the crook of my elbow. “Take whatever emotion you’re experiencing, and phrase your portrayal with that bent. For example, what are you feeling right now?”

“Annoyed! Like I wanna wipe that smirk off your face!”

“Alrighty, then. Internalise it,” Maisie scarpered backwards as I abruptly stood. I wiped a hand over my face and transformed into a more enigmatic mask. Jaqen H’ghar’s voice exited my mouth again. “Come and show me how a woman becomes a girl.”

“You’re on!” She knelt, and we began - no cracking slate required.

[“I’m sorry, I’ll-” Arya Stark craned her neck up to look at me. Upon realising who it was she was talking to, she ditched the meek act and became indignant. “Where were you?”

Hefting a hen under my arm instead of a helmet. “A man has patrol duty…” I frowned with surprising sincerity while keeping my tone airy enough to make light of the situation. “A girl owes one more name. The red god demands it. Give the man a name.”

Instead of shooting off an answer pointblank, Arya needlessly prevaricated. “How long after I give you a name does it… take you to kill someone?”

I stifled a sigh halfway, circled around Arya, and casually propped myself on a wall with all the cocksure attitude I could muster. “A minute, a day, a month. Death is certain. Time is not.”

“Tywin Lannister was just here, and now he’s gone. He’s taking his army to attack my brother. I need him dead right now!” She tried to get in my face as she said it.

My forefinger poked her forehead and deliberately pushed her back to reclaim my personal space. “This, I cannot do.”

She swatted me away. Arya almost scowled, but at the last second, acknowledged the danger of being spied on in enemy presence and schooled herself. “You promised you’d help me.

“Help was not promised, lovely girl. Only death. There must be others. Give a man their names, and they will die. By the seven new and old gods beyond counting, I swear it-” My tone was poised to be matter-of-fact, but a noticeable hint of condescension seeped through.

Arya reacted poorly to my glibness. She leaned and whispered just as I was finishing my spiel. “Jaqen H’ghar.”

My grin fell. I stilled every facial muscle I could control, and stared far away, unseeingly. A single laborious blink had me glaring at Arya, unimpressed. “A girl would give a man his own name? This is no joking thing.” We broke out into a rapidfire argument.

“I’m not joking, a man can go kill himself.” Flippant. Disrespectful.

“Un-name me!” Severe. Worried.

“No!” Stubborn.

“Please?” Whimpering. 

“I’ll un-name you - if you help me and my friends escape.”

“That was not the bargain-!”

“Fine. Jaqen H’ghar.”

“A girl lacks honour.” She’d won. The clipped shrug and imperceptible uptick of her lips was a challenge I could only meet with a defeated frown and a heated exhale. A stiff-spined thrust off the stone wall had my granite-etched face piercing Arya from above with a steely glower. “If I do this, a girl must obey.”

She met me fearlessly. “A girl will obey.” Cocky thing, wasn’t she? Jaqen and I both appreciated it, and let her know by swapping out my mask again. This time, one adorned with a gratified grin.]

Clearly, I wasn’t alone in my amusement as applause unexpectedly erupted from the gallery peeping at us. Alan Taylor, the director of this particular episode, intently viewed us from between the square created between both his index fingers and thumb. “We should’ve been rolling! That was almost perfect - a few minor adjustments on the actual set and we’ll have our shot ready for print! Can we check in with a meteorologist and get an ETA on this flipping rain subsiding? In the meantime, I have a few ideas for tweaks.”

Uh-oh. 

Assessing the threat that adults posed on my newly rehabilitated patient, I took the most irresponsible action possible.

In an effort to cement Maisie’s fresh grasp on frivolity, I bent, wrapped my free arm around her waist, and hauled her in a fireman’s carry - straight into the storm. “Wait! At least get an umbrella!” Peals of her laughter crowed out as the three of us (including the chicken) peeled off under the pelting monsoon.

“Why bother? Rain’s a lot more fun when you can splash around in it!”

–

“Can I be honest, Bas? This scene is cool and all. But… don’t you think it’s bordering on boring?” Nothing in the world is so sweetly satisfying as successfully shaping the minds of the next generation. “Isn’t there something we could do to spice it up?”

My two-week tenure in Westeros had reached its terminus. Maisie and I were together, filming the last scene shared by Jaqen and Arya. “Go on, then.”

“I dunno… Wouldn’t it be more impactful if we actually witness Jaqen pulling off something assassin-y rather than constantly alluding to it with a bunch of off-screen feats?” She pointed at the overhanging outcrop from where I was directed to loom ominously.

The initial screenplay notes had me duck for some camera trickery where I’d look as if I’d disappeared, then reappear behind Arya - after cutting and then slowly wandering on to a separate marker, of course.

Movie magic, not the genuine article. Including the scene where I later turn around and look back at Arya with an entirely different face.

I surveyed the cliffside and spotted enough jutting rubble that I could use to add dynamism to the scene, as well as potentially inducing an aneurysm in production. But before I committed to anything, “you sure we aren’t behaving like overgrown toddlers?”

“We’ve shot this scene several times. What’s the harm in making mischief just once?” A girl after my own heart!

“Naughty, naughty! You know damn well I can’t resist.” I snagged her cheeks and angled her eyeline towards a specific spot. “Okay, here’s the plan: Forget your last marker, pump your breaks right where you’re supposed to clock me the first time. Stay in character, keep your mouth shut, and I’ll do the rest.”

“Bas! We need you back up on the ridge for another take!” Alan directed.

“Time for some flocking action!” And Maisie had fully defected to my side.

As soon as Alan called action, everything resumed as the script had called for. The cameras followed Maisie and company as they’d done a dozen prior - right until our pre-agreed location.

She came to a halt; the film crew was forced to as well. 

Then, I got moving.

The wide shot was trained on me as I serenely strolled over to the edge of the steep drop. No one - not the crew, nor the lens looked away.

Years of gymnastics earned balance and taekwondo burned pain tolerance engaged my muscle memory as I went over the craggy edge.

Loose shrubbery and gravel crumbled as I skidded to the first foothold. There was a reflex to contort my expression in concentration and stretch my arms for added stability, but I resisted the impulse.

I reached the first foothold with my mien still mean, and my arms folded behind my back. My rope-less rappel continued with an easy series of hops, skips, and jumps that belied the difficulty I was hiding as I clambered down.

The last bit was tricky.

Trackless soles on my armoured shoes led me to lose grip slightly. I shifted my weight in the reverse direction to keep steady, but a sharply jutting shelf dug painfully into my ribs. I withheld my wince, but was knocked off my footing. Unless I wanted to ruin our illicit shot, I had to be quick on my feet - not like I had any other option.

Flexing every ounce of my training, I leapt outwards, and aimed at the flattest and loamiest parcel of grass as my landing zone. Body and spirits braced, I landed with a clangour of artificial steel. Knees bent, my butt almost contacted the ground, but my rippling quads torqued me upright in a perfect dismount.

Five metres in five seconds, not bad.

Even though I hadn’t crashed to the floor, everyone else’s jaws had. “C-cut… Did we get that on tape!?”

Tom Wlaschiha, the original Jaqen H’ghar, my current body-double, and future faceless man transplant, immediately absolved himself from having to repeat my stunt. “I hope you don’t expect me to imitate that. I’m no billy-goat!”

“Holy - Woo!” But as Maisie and I eagerly high-fived each other, I proved that’s totally what we were. 

Kids.